So, my foot saga continues. Today I went to the hospital and met with the orthopaedic team. As I mentioned in my Sick post back in January I have something of a habit of being treated by the beautiful. I maintain that this is not a good thing, it’s awful. There’s nothing worse than having to face Dr Handsome when you have stomach flu and have to describe your vomiting or diarrhoea in great detail.
So confident was I that I was going to meet yet another supermodel of the medical world I even placed a bet with my husband. Turned out that this doctor was quite attractive in a sort of sharp cheekboned Scandi accountant type way. He sounded just like Tom Hiddleston which I liked but he was entirely devoid of any kind of bedside manner. I was just being my normal self trying to engage him in conversation and joke about my stupid swollen foot and he just wasn’t having any of it. If I’d walked in, sat down and farted loudly he would have written a prescription to cure my flatulence without looking up and just slid it silently across the table to me. He was that sort. I didn’t dare joke that maybe having gained weight was no doubt not helping my foot heal. He probably would have agreed! And then I’d have no choice but to *kill myself.
Anyway, my ankle and foot got prodded and rotated and manipulated which was all rather unpleasant. He asked me lots of questions and I felt like a total idiot as I didn’t really know any of the answers.
“When did this happen?”
“End of July… I think”
“Where on your foot does it hurt?”
“Um… there. And there…a bit”
I’m fairly certain he hates me.
He told me that I needed a boot. He then called in the nurse. And that’s when it happened. The nurse was a strapping 6ft 3 Adonis called Aidan. When he walked in to escort me to another room to have my boot fitted I couldn’t help but mentally sigh Aha… I knew I couldn’t possibly escape unscathed. Aidan tells me that he broke his ankle in an alcohol fuelled weekend earlier this year and insists that I’m not to worry, the boot really is quite comfortable. He chats and hums and is generally 6ft 3inches of total loveliness whilst we fit my new appendage. He says my daughter might like to decorate it with stickers – I can’t bring myself to tell him that my daughter is actually 13 and would die if I suggested such a thing. By the end I know I’ll actually be really sorry to see him go. I’m also sorry I didn’t bother to shave my legs before we met.
Next up is the x-ray. Aidan escorts me in a gentlemanly fashion and deposits me with the radiographer, Jamal. Jamal fancies himself an unofficial judge on Strictly Come Dancing.
“I love Daisy” he gushes “She floats across the dance floor”
“I don’t watch Strictly”
“I don’t like Greg. Greg is very up himself”
“I don’t watch Strictly, I don’t know who’s on it”
“Last week Brendan was ill…”
Jamal needs 6 x-rays of my foot/ankle. I need to splay my toes (harder than you think) and put all my weight on it. By the time he’s got me balancing on one foot I am looking for the hidden cameras. But he is sweet and enthusiastic and calls me “my darling” – “Just lean more to the left my darling, well done”. Jamal helps me put my boot back on and I promise to vote for Daisy next week.
On the whole it was a good visit. I will need to go for an MRI in the next week or so and it looks like I’ll be wearing the boot for another month at least.
Ah, the boot. It’s OK when you’re sitting down but it will take some time to get used to walking in the bloody thing. Our house is 111 years old and has a very steep staircase. On top of that the steps themselves are quite shallow because people were essentially Lilliputians in 1905 and had teeny tiny feet. Trying to walk up and down the stairs with this MASSIVE boot on is going to take some practise.
When I post a photo of it my sister comes back immediately saying “The Storm Trooper look is all the rage don’t you know? 😉”. Later I show my husband and he smiles and tilts his head and says “I kinda like it, you’re like a sexy girl RoboCop”. I’ve decided I’m never divorcing him.
*Obviously I am not going to commit suicide. This is my sense of humour. I’m British.